Oh Kara, you’re so full of shit. Of course you’re cranky. Would it kill you to smile? Yeah? Well, fuck you then.
My Dad is like the fucking witch in the gingerbread house, poking and squeezing me in all of the meaty places to check for ripeness. I don’t mind hugs or getting a pat on the back, but pleeeeease don’t poke me in the ribs or squeeze the back of my arm just above my elbow, then act surprised when I tell you to fuck off. “You’re cranky! You need food! You’re too skinny!” Shaddup, trollman.
I want to be alone for a very long period of time, but no, I’m back at the Harpy nest bitching about ev-ry-damn-thing. The microwave doesn’t zap my frozen shit right so it’s burnt around the edges and frozen in the middle. The water tastes like paint thinner. The bed is a slab of granite. The entire house tilts to the right because it’s sinking into a bog on one side. The room I’m in smells like the garage below it, which smells like rotten meat because the giant chest freezer died. The bathroom floor is covered in manfur. I still don’t have a place to put my fucking coffee maker. My husband smells like a sweaty sack of balls because he refuses to shower.
My mood swings are going to kill someone. You, me, them, the planet. We’re all doomed. Being so angry makes me angry, and so does crying for no fucking reason.
No, I’m not cranky. The joy has been extinguished. Welcome to adulthood.